


Tick Tock

by criminalinwestwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, meme!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:51:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/criminalinwestwood/pseuds/criminalinwestwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a universe where everyone is born with numbers on their wrists counting down to when they'll meet their soul mate, Sebastian Moran finally finds his. Small drabble, written from Sebastian's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tick Tock

Moran had always hated the great significance of the ticking clocks, always taken to be such an important marker and a way of defining the significance of his life, the idea of being fated. A short lived clock defining a romantic and a lengthy one defining a lost soul, useless drivel in his own opinion. From being young he’d received various judging remarks at the state of his own “ticker” as they called it. He was different. Sebastian’s clock sat upon his wrist unmoving at 00:01:00, adults aimed to comfort him for his tragic loss; as if he cared. They always said the stationary numbers meant his lover had been lost at a young age, a tragedy coating gossip to keep the rumour afloat.

In his youth he often thumbed at the numbers in the absence of company, willing them to move, he didn’t like being different; it drew unwanted attention. He’d opted to cover the numbers with a black bordered ribbon as he aged, a recognised sign of loss, to avoid questioning.

————————————————————————

Moran stood in the tower of London, posing as a tourist, eyeing the crown jewels with a thoughtful expression. He’d been told by the commander of his unit his only aim was to take ensure that once the cattle began to scatter, any remaining security were to be dealt with, then he was to leave with the public, a look of artistically placed fear on his countenance.

He drifted as he waited for the chaos to begin. Pain. His wrist burned, pulsing hot and bright, his sob of pain held tight in his throat; with shaking hands he tore the ribbon from the joint, staring at the offending limb and its extremities, mouth agape and disbelieving as he watched the numbers slowly tick across his pale wrist. 50 seconds, tick tock, Sebastian.

49…  
48…  
47…

Struggling to breathe, he closed his eyes, he heard the alarm, people brushed and ran into him in their frenzy, the audible sound of a body hitting the floor registered with him but he ignored it, counting gently under his breath; mouth barely forming the rasping syllables.

39…  
38…  
37…  
His heart felt to be in his throat, he choked on it and shook. Scuffing shoes, rustling clothes, a loud crash as glass shattered onto a concrete floor.

7…  
6…  
5…

”So, what do you think?” The sugar-glazed voice broke his count. Catching his breath and pulse he slowly opened his flickering lids. A man sat before him, garbed in the crown jewels and sitting atop the throne, his face lit with glee and curiosity; mayhem seemed to surround the air near him, visualised in the form of shattered glass and stolen treasures. He glanced down at his wrist, the numbers finally at their conclusion.

"Perfect."


End file.
